And This Too Shall Pass
by Kurai Himitsu
Summary: It hurts when someone leaves... But what will Hatori do when he finds that he's the only one who can't move foreward? [oneshot]


**A/N:** I needed a short angsty fic and this is what came to me… Very, very, _very_ dark. Not to mention morbid. This one's anime-based.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Furuba_ and I'm not making money off this either

**Ratings:** PG-13

**Genre:** Angst

**Warnings:** Dark, morbid, self-mutilation, suicidal thoughts, stream-of-consciousness

**Main Characters:** Hatori

**Additional Notes:** Anime-based, slight spoiler for episode 16

_And This Too Shall Pass_

Idly, my fingers play at my hair; my fingers are numb. The rest of my body is just as numb as my hands, my mind wandering where it will. I have just been told, just been handed my own heart, a stake shoved through it, on a rusty platter. I sit here and watch the blood pool around it as it gives it's last feeble attempts to live.

Kana is married, and it's not to me.

I suppose, looking back, that I should've known she would find someone new—after all, hadn't I wished her as much? But still, I've learned something—it _hurts_ to have your heart carved out. I am aware of talking, explaining and saying I am fine. Inside, however, I can only watch as the last of my bleeding heart dies.

Now I sit here in the pitch dark of my room, back with my starchy bed sheets and crisp white smock. Silver instruments glisten on the trays, waiting—begging—to be used. I am back at the Sohma estate. I'm back to where this all began. My mind is thick, fuzzy and heavy.

I don't care.

As I look at the cold, unfeeling, and impersonal office which is practically my home, I wonder—would dying be so terrible? Meanwhile, my fingers find a small scalpel and close around it. The blade is small, but sharp and thin—so appealing… _Would _dying be so terrible?

I wonder, as I feel the cool metal, is the common belief true? I want to know—I _must_ know. It's a burning feeling in my gut, fire under my skin. Impossible to endure, undeniable. There is no let up, no rest, no peace.

The scalpel feels like ice, liquid steel, as it slices through my skin. I stare down at the cut, mildly intrigued, as blood begins to drip from my arm, three inches below the inside of my elbow. Not quite my wrist, but it will do for now. I cut again, fascinated as my pale skin splits effortlessly before the scalpel. The blood is warm as it flows sluggishly down my arm.

I cut, again and again and again. It isn't long before I lose count. Bored with the straight, jail-bar lines, I start to curve a few, connecting them. My lips twitch toward a smile and I begin a picture of ecstasy, drawn in crimson. I continue to cut. It becomes methodical soon—cut, slice, slice, cut, wipe. Cut, slice, slice, cut, wipe.

I'm restless; I get careless, and deeper, longer, faster. Then it happens. I feel a sharp pain suddenly and I look down again. There is a single, long cut across the pulsing vein of my wrist. I sigh—so…this will be the end? It's fitting, I suppose. Done in by my own scalpel; I laugh at the irony of it all.

I flop back on my bed, suddenly quite exhausted. My eyes begin to close, slowly shutting out the world. So…this is death? My life isn't flashing before my eyes and I'm not really afraid—I'm more relived than anything. It almost feels as though I'm floating, even if I feel numb and empty. It is a nearly enjoyable feeling—or it would be if it weren't for the throbbing pain in my wrist that is in perfect time with my staccato heartbeat. All fades to black.

I wake to the sun in my eyes, the glare making my vision black for a moment. Slowly, carefully, I sit up on the bed. I don't know the exact time I fell asleep or lost consciousness, but then, I don't particularly care as I look down. I frown.

My arm is covered in dried blood and my wrist is stuck to the stained bed sheets—I hiss, annoyed that I was so stupid. If anyone had walked in, I would have been labeled suicidal and carted off to some mental hospital or another and psychoanalyzed. Not that it wouldn't be interesting, driving them mad, but I don't exactly relish the idea at the moment.

Carefully I peel away the ruined bed sheet and examine the cut. It's long, but not too extremely deep. I don't curse as I clean it with the burning alcohol. Really, I don't think at all. I just do my job, like any other day. Once I somehow bandage my arm, I discard my ruined sheets and shirt and find a new, clean, long-sleeved shirt to hide the bandages.

I am numb—I don't feel a thing. My mind is blank as I drift through the morning, the sunlight blending into the night. I don't sleep—why would I? I'm not tired. Instead, I sit at my desk and stare at _her_ photo. Kana's photo.

The night is quiet; not a sound drifts through the estate—I have only Kana's bittersweet memory and the tick of the clock as it counts down the seconds to my inevitable death.

"Ha'ri?" I don't look away from Kana's hazel eyes; I'm not in the mood for Momiji's annoying questions. I hear him come closer, his footsteps sounding against the dead floorboards like small knells in the otherwise silent night. "Ha'ri? Why are you crying?"

Crying? I frown and touch my cheek, my fingers coming away wet; I hadn't even noticed I was crying. I shake my head and fix my eyes again on Kana, my lost angel.

"Ha'ri?"

I ignore him, hoping he will simply disappear. Besides that, why am I always the one left taking care of him? I'm no father—Kazuma is far more suited for that role.

"Ha'ri?" He hasn't left yet—quite the contrary. In fact, he's moved to block my view of Kana, the only one who ever gave me any happiness. "Please Ha'ri—what's wrong?"

I don't answer, still hoping he will leave.

"Is it…that you miss Kana?" I focus on Momiji now, my eyes narrowed as I take in his obnoxiously bright blonde hair, his oversized and frilled pajamas, and his large mahogany eyes. He smiles a little, almost pityingly; I feel my blood begin to boil—the first emotion I've felt in nearly two days. "It's all right. You can cry—I won't tell."

I'm not crying, I want to say…but I can't. My mouth doesn't want to cooperate so I can only glare. It doesn't detour the boy though; he keeps at it, becoming all the more sickening and mushy as he goes.

"Sometimes it's good to cry," he says, those eyes so infuriatingly patient and understanding. You don't know me! No one knew me but _her_! "Sometimes it helps us get through all of the bad times. I know it helps me to."

I want to puke—too sentimental. Can't he see I want to be alone? Perhaps to do the thing properly on my other wrist. But he can't take a hint.

"Ha'ri…I…I know how you're feeling." That stops my thoughts and I immediately tense, glaring sharply mow. That brat doesn't have a _clue_ what I'm feeling. "I understand. It still hurts to think about Mama…about her forgetting about me—but it always passes." I blink, frowning. He only smiles that sad and understanding smile. "Everything passes Ha'ri—just remember that. It'll all be okay in the end."

I sit there, dumbstruck. He smiles and leaves quietly, shutting the door behind him. Still I sit.

How? How could a fifteen-year-old _child_ know what I didn't? What I should have known? _How?_

I pondered that question until the blood-red dawn brought me the answer. He knew, because he had felt the same. For the first time in what seemed forever, I smiled. It wasn't a wide smile, but it was there all the same.

Momiji was right, I found. In the weeks that followed I smiled more often. I could talk of Kana without numbing myself—I even visited her once. It wasn't as if I didn't still hurt from time to time. Only that I knew, with no little certainty, that everything—no matter how painful—will pass eventually.

/_Owari\\\_

**A/N:** I warned you it was morbid. In any case, I hope you liked it! Moroi Mikomi inspired this—we were talking idly and noticed how we've never, not once, seen Tori-kun wear anything but long sleeved shirts…hence this. Well, please—**_review!_**


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